he held up a dead coyote
like he had just won first prize
smiling from ear to ear
a look of pride in his eyes

the caption said "predator control"
which brought a question to my mind
if we call survival being a predator
then what do we call our kind?

this poem
is not about you

even though
your spirit is in every word
your voice sounds strong
in the halls of my mind
telling me things
I am now sure
I want to know

this poem is
about me

trying to understand
you

Dark knights
on white satin
With pumice for breath
Exact the toll that tells

I cut my heart out
Placed it on display
I get much sympathy that I
throw down my endless well

It's bitter , the wine
It's better than time
I will out to find
a curse that binds

"I" falls off the tongue's challenge
Captured and caged
I send notice to the page
Now that the cat's captured the rage

So it comes down to the season of reason
I am reluctant to part ways
Pray thee write a poem on my behalf
That I will exist beyond these days .

Is straightforward
Anything
Abstruse
Enigmatic
Esoteric
Is
Suspect!

you are my lighthouse

soooo many memories of my lighthouse

the eyes of my heart wrap themselves around you

...and the sound of the sea remains forever within me

cj 2016

one little poem
can heal a hurt
one little poem
in the pocket of a shirt

a shirt that's ripped
with a spot of dirt
has a poem in its pocket
that could heal a hurt

a hurt can't heal
if a heart can't hear
the words of the poem
that create the cure

the cure for the hurt
it begins with a verse
but you need to read the words
so the cure can be heard

be heard all ye poets
check the pocket of your shirts
and speak of the poem
that can heal a hurt

a hurt can be healed
by the power of a verse
one little poem
in the pocket of your shirt

There was fog this morning softening
What I knew into whatever I could make of it
My mind fell out of life and into  
The business of re-constructing reality;
Like when I was young and could dream
Of things to come without limitations because
Young minds are endless fonts of possibility
Before life replaces the pressure of belief
With the exigencies of work, and pain, and the weight of broken hope.

But the fog restores by turning the hard edges of the world
Into soft things that my mind can mold.

Gravity becomes the illusion in the fog for everything floats.
Light is no longer sharp and discerning, but gently hides imperfection.
Shadows who fear the day walk bravely in the fog and carry
Dreams I had, and quiet memories.
The sound of the world is muted and I cannot recall
My failures, only my hopes, my dreams, the warm memories.

All this rides the fog…

Its mist gets in my eyes.  The breath of it is cool.  I feel it around me

I wish I could stay here forever.

If you're ever on the riverside
where the sun beats your head
you would see the old man
selling hats of palm leaf
but you care not to notice him
having already smelled the sea
and too keen to cross the river
travel southward on the island
till the saline wind scalds your eyes
your skins itch to jump into the waves
yet the man with the palm leaf hats
would not cease to tell you
how burning would be the sun on the sands
and so badly you need to protect the head
by parting bucks that mean nothing to you
but a world to the mouths he feeds
and before you stamp on him a final no
she has one atop her hair
beneath which her eyes flutter like butterflies
her sun rouged cheeks untimely blush
and two born anew lovers
merrily head for the sea
having bought romance
for forty bucks.

The topography of my mind
Maps the beach at changing tide.

From low to high it's all washed clean
Footprints, castles and trails alike
Unetched slate of flat leveled sand
Grains aligned by blessed wave strike.

From high to low it's all exposed
Fragments, jetsam, seaweed entwined
Littered, scattered on shore amuck
The sting of empty shells combined.

Yes, the topography of my mind
Maps the beach at changing tide
From low to high and high to low
A gloriously exhausting ride.